


Word Games

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: Tanis (Podcast), The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Memory Loss, also Geoff has a huge crush on Nic, im calling it as i see (hear?) it, im just suggesting that it happened, look im not saying sexy times ensued when MK was at Nic's place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he writes. So he plays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Word Games

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a [comment fic](http://the-wonderful-jinx.tumblr.com/post/143173492944/not-sure-if-youre-taking-fic-prompts-right-now) requested by remembertowrite

The Runner warns him that names begin to lose their meaning once they begin their journey to their destination. Once the meaning is lost, one’s connection back home is gone with it. And with that, they can never return. That’s why they use labels. He is no longer a host of a podcast.   _(What’s a podcast?_ , he thinks on the first night into their journey. The answer is in the back of his mind, but the mosquitoes are vicious, keeping him from his inquiry and reminding of his current duties.) He is a witness.

No, he is The Witness now, meant to record the group’s journey to whatever it is they seek. He _knows_ what it is they are seeking, he swears on his mother’s grave he knows ( _What’s a mother? What’s a grave?_ ). He just can’t put the words and meanings together; like a puzzle where all the pieces are the same shape and color. He asks for their help, but the looks they give tell him they do not care or they do not know themselves. That is that.

The Zealot, and The Novelist are not the best of company, he quickly realizes. Conversation is stinted between them. Anytime they do try to talk, it feels like the words are on the tips of their tongues, just waiting to come out, but nothing does. Only frustrated sighs or The Zealot’s chanting. The one one who seems to retain the ability to use and understand speech is The Runner. She only to give orders and directions, saving her words for later.

In the first day, to try to keep the memories fresh in head, he tries to play word games with his traveling companions. He says a word, and they have to respond with the first thing they think of. But The Novelist quickly shuts it down when she turns the question on him, asking if he even knows the meanings of the words he says.

He doesn’t talk after that. Instead he writes, penning and plotting and recording. For who, what, or why, he can’t recall, but deep inside he knows it is related to his label, his new found occupation. Writing, he finds, is simpler than opening his mouth. The words flow easier and he doesn’t have to strain his head for memories.

He plays the word game by himself. 

( _What’s a game?_ )

 _Friend_ , he writes over and over and over again in the margins of the first few pages in the journal. 

No. Not ‘friend’. _The_ Friend. 

The Friend is a woman. The Friend is short and thin, roughly the same as The Runner, but with less muscle definition in her arms and more in her legs from countless hours of racing through the city (He can’t remember why she runs though, is she safe?) The Friend’s hair is brown, but when she’s out on a sunny day, he can recall the way the small red strands catch and reflect the light. He remembers her brown eyes that light up every time there’s an adventure or a story to be had, no matter the risks presented. Something in him shudders at the thought of danger. It must mean this look happens all the time and brought about some life-altering consequences. For good or bad though, he can’t remember for the life of him.

But he does remember the nice things she does for him: her warm hugs, the knowing “cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die” wink, nights huddling over a bowl of food and shouting at the tv screen as the little players do something they shouldn’t have done. The memories he can recall go by so quickly he cannot focus on them for too long. If he tries, he is either forced back to consciousness by The Runner, or exhaustion takes him in the night.

Still, every time he thinks of The Friend, he smiles. When he comes back, he wants to see her again and tell her of his little trip. 

So he writes. So he plays.

 _Hacker_ , he writes in-between the space of the day two and three entries. When he tries to say it out loud, it is harsh against his throat, but not guttural like the moans of The Zealot. 

‘ _I’m not a hacker_ ,’ a voice hisses in his head, loud enough to make him stop writing and look over his shoulder in terror. But there is no one there that could have produced such a sound. 

No no no no no no. _Wrong_ , blare the alarms in his head. Not _a_ Hacker, _The_ Hacker. This one is important, and like The Friend, The Witness knows what they look like. He has memories attached to this label.

He only thinks of The Hacker during the night when do they do stop for rest. ( _What’s a hacker? Whats a hack?_ He’ll ask them when he gets back, surely they will know. Why else would he give them this title). And like the strange sounds of the forest, memories of The Hacker flit in and out. He questions if they are even real -it wouldn’t be the first time he questioned reality- but he trusts himself and what memories he has.

He can recall a feminine shape, taller than The Runner and The Friend, and more muscular overall. The blue glow of her computer screen highlight and contrasts with her light brown skin. Dark hair tumbles past her shoulders in a messy wave, like she just woke up from a nap. A perpetual, annoyed smirk graces her thin, chapped lips. And her brown-black eyes always look at him like he’s a dog that chewed up her favorite pair of shoes. 

He remembers aggravated sighs, abrupt absences, and a day and a night in her company where they-

That he can’t remember. But he feels a heat creep into his face. It’s not the kind after a brush with death memory with The Friend, but something else. God he wishes he could remember. But he does remember that he owes The Hacker; something about coins and bits. _Or was it bits and coins?_ He’ll ask her when he comes home. Surely she’ll know. She’s knows just about everything.

So he writes. So he plays. 

During the fourth day, he trips over a root which sends him crashing into the swampy earth. The Runner doesn’t pause. Thankfully, The Novelist and The Zealot linger and help him up. The cold mud seeps through his jeans and chills the burning muscles of his legs. His ankle is on fire.He limps for the rest of the day until they make camp again.

“Stay strong,” The Novelist whispers as she watches him nurse his sprained ankle with an ice pack The Zealot found. 

Whether she’s aware of it or not, her words send him to the next one in his little game.

Strength.

The Soldier. 

He’s a tall man, but everyone around says he’s _average._ But The Witness knows better, he can see shadows The Soldier casts over everyone in his presence. The Witness has to crane his neck to even look the other man in the eye, and even then, it barely works. And The Soldier's thin. It's not unhealthy. It's a trim and trained frame that hides beneath casual business wear and the classic t-shirt, jeans, and boots combo. The Soldier is the type of man who’s strength is not obvious as first glance, only revealed in an emergency. Desert scratched skin and faint scars on his hands and knuckles tell a story of hardships.

(The Witness wants to know these stories. He can’t resist them.)

Despite the potential danger The Soldier presents, The Witness doesn’t find himself scared of him. The Witness should be though, he is so much smaller in comparison to The Soldier. The Soldier could easily lift him off his feet and break him half. But that animal, primal fear -the kind that makes his hairs stand up and his heart race faster in preparation for a hasty retreat- never comes. The memories of terror never arrive because they do not exist. He has good memories, The Witness reasons as he scribbles his fading memories hastily through the night. 

He remembers crowded, brightly light places with a cold bottle in his hands and two empty ones in front of The Soldier with another bottle on the way. His smiles are wide, not toothy like The Friend’s, but boyish, making him look younger. His  messy, light brown hair that he likes to comb through with his hands when he’s nervous or tired only help the illusion of youth. And _god_ that belly laugh is infectious. The memory alone of that booming laugh can make The Witness join in. But despite that laugh, his sharp, bright eyes betray a sadness and longing that is coaxed out after a third drink. They sit a little closer, his voice is a little softer. The Witness can’t remember what the source of the sadness it, but like everything about The Soldier, the melancholy infects him. 

( _Please don't be sad, tell me what I can do to make you happy again._ )

That night, he abandons his writing to cry. The others think it’s the pain from his ankle and when they try to dig for reasons, all he can let out is a strangled scream.

They leave him to his miseries. They fall asleep to the sound of  his muffled hiccups and graphite on lined paper. 

So he writes, so he plays.

And only one word dominates his thoughts and the pages of the notebook that night.

_Home._

_Home home home home home,_ he writes even when his fingers cramp. He keeps on writing, only stopping when he realizes that he’s running out of pages in the notebook and must save them for the rest of the trip.

 _What is home?,_ The Witness thinks, curling into his sleeping bag _,_ _Home is where I left The Friend, The Hacker, The Soldier, and Nic Silver behind,_ he finally reasons.

_Who is Nic Silver?_

The Witness cannot remember. But he’ll ask The Friend, The Hacker, and The Soldier when he gets back. Maybe he'll Nic Silver himself; if he can find him.

So he writes. So he plays.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you though of this!


End file.
